


Seismic

by samchandler1986



Category: GLOW (TV 2017)
Genre: Gen, Multi, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-26
Updated: 2017-09-03
Packaged: 2018-12-20 06:49:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11915433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samchandler1986/pseuds/samchandler1986
Summary: The earth moves for the GLOW team. This is not a euphemism.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> With thanks to my prompter :)

** Debbie **

“Look,” says Sam, “don’t you have better things to be doing right now? Other than harassing me over this shit?”

“Oh. No, no, no.” Debbie jabs an accusatory finger at him “You do not get to write this off so easily. This is not _my shit_ , okay? This is your mess and I am telling you that you are going to fix it.”

Justine, fiddling with a camera tripod, looks back from one to the other like a spectator at a tennis match.

He rubs his sinuses, screwing up his face, and calls her bluff. “Or else what?”

A moment of silence. Debbie opens her mouth; closes it again. “Or else I’ll leave,” she tries.

He raises an eyebrow. “Okay,” he shrugs. Flat, disbelieving. “I guess I’ll cross that bridge when we—”

“Do you hear that?”

“What?” snap Sam and Debbie together, redundantly. A low roar has become audible, the carpet vibrating underfoot.

“Shit!” manages Sam. “Earthq—!”

The floor drops away, cutting him off. Bounced like a pea in a drum, Debbie grabs hold of one of the overstuffed theatre chairs, for all the good it will do. From a well-drilled part of her brain comes the mantra - _drop, cover, hold on_! -  but she’s used to hiding under a school desk and there’s nothing like that here.

Shearing metal squeals, and she looks up to see the lighting rig broken free; swinging towards them with treacle slowness. Sam yells something, barrels into Justine and the camera tripod together, knocking them both flying.

Then the rig hits the balcony and she is thrown in the air. _Randy_ , says her brain, before she hits the ground with a sickening thump and the world goes dark.  

* * *

** Carmen **

Her head is cradled in Tameé’s arms, like they’re locked up in the ring. Only the ring is above them now, she thinks. A flimsy roof from the rain of crunching debris, but better than nothing. _Little pig, little pig, let me come in. Or I’ll huff and I’ll puff…_

It feels like hours later, when the rumble dies away, and the world seems to have sorted out which way is up and which way is down. Tameé’s steady breathing becomes the only movement, chest moving in and out, under Carmen’s cheek. “Child,” she rasps eventually, lungs full of dust, “are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Carmen says. Her voice sounds strange, the ruptured wood and canvas tented around them absorbing the sound. “I think I’m fine.”

“Machu?” A third voice. Muffled, small and scared. “Welfare Queen?”

“Bash?”

“I’m under the ring!” he says, sounding panicked.

“Us too,” says Carmen. She’s surprised at how calm she sounds. “Are you hurt?”

“No,” he calls back. “But it’s dark…”

“For us too,” says Tamée. “I think the ceiling collapsed.”

“And the power’s out,” adds Carmen.

“What do we do?”

Tamée takes a breath. “What do you think? We get ourselves out.”

Her words bring an unaccountable rush of relief. A plan, an order, is better than curling round the debris in the dark.

“Are you sure?” says Bash. “I mean, are you not… I don’t know. Supposed to wait for the authorities or something?”

She doesn’t need to see Tamée’s face, she can _feel_ her roll her eyes. “Is he for real?”

“He’s not… He’s in shock.”

“I know. But seriously, what white boy idiot shit is waiting for someone to dig you out of the rubble?”

Carmen laughs, until dust catches in her throat and turns it into a cough.

“Machu? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” she says again. “I’m going to try and… I think there’s a gap this way.” She wriggles, slowly, carefully, feeling her way in the dark. Her cloak snags on broken spars; she pulls loose, crawls on. The mat makes a sloping roof down into the floor. Try as she might she cannot shift it. “I think it’s…” She tries to find another word, a better one than _buried_. “Stuck.”

There is a rattling sound in the dark. “Uh,” she manages, trying not to panic.

“It’s me,” says Bash, sounding closer. More rattling, and the sense of space opening up to her left. She catches his groping hand, somehow, fingers squeezing hers painfully.  

“Oh, thank God.” He pulls himself through into her crawl space. “What _happened_?”

“… An earthquake?” she suggests, wondering if he has hit his head.

“Oh, right. Right! Yes, of course.” He considers this. “Birdie’s going to be _so_ angry.”

“About what?”

“This,” he says. She hears his fingers brush against the canvas ceiling. “The ballroom.”

“Right,” she says. “I mean, she might be glad you’re alive, too.”

“Oh,” he says, as if he hadn’t considered this. “Yeah. I’m sure she— yeah.”

“Thank God it was just the rehearsal,” says Tamée. “Can you imagine…?”

Carmen shudders at the thought of an audience in place of the empty auditorium seats. “I hope the others are ok.”  

“There’s a fire exit in the dressing room. I’m sure they made it out,” says Bash stoutly.

“Yeah,” lies Carmen. “Me too.”

* * *

** Ruth **

The lightbulbs on the mirrors explode, a series of crunching _pops_. Jenny’s sewing machine crashes to the floor. More mirrored glass smashes. The floor is still hammering up and down like a broken carnival ride, smoke curling into the air.

Rhonda tries to move, out from under the dressing table. She’s British, Ruth reasons, they don’t have earthquakes. “You have to wait until it stops—” she tries to explain.

“Yeah, but if we don’t put out the fire all the hairspray is going to explode.” Patient as ever. As if this is all perfectly normal. Ruth goggles for a second, before survival instinct cuts in and they scramble out together.

One of the blown bulbs has ignited a pile of tissues. “Oh, there’s no fire extinguisher!”

“Um, um,” says Ruth, casting about for a miraculous bucket of water or sand or _something._ “Here!”

Sam’s leather jacket, discarded on the sofa. They throw it over the flames like a blanket, as the floor finally judders to a halt.

“Shit,” says Rhonda. “I mean, that was kind of exciting, but still…”

“Is everyone okay?” calls Ruth.

Jenny and Arthie emerge by inches from under the other table. “Yeah, we’re okay,” says Arthie, all eyes in her face.

“What about Melrose?” asks Rhonda.

“I thought she went with Cherry and the others…”

“No, she needed her shoes…” says Jenny. She takes a step forward, and points. “Oh no.”

Melrose is lying next to the sofa, looking as if she is asleep. Ruth’s hand flies instinctively to her mouth. “Is she…?”

Arthie kneels at the fallen wrestler’s side, feeling for a pulse in her pale wrist. “She’s alive,” she says.

“I’ll go get—” starts Ruth, turning to the fire escape door. The handle twists but the door is stuck solid. She tries again, puts her shoulder to it. Jenny comes to help but there is no shifting it.

“The corridor’s blocked with fallen rubbish,” says Rhonda, having tried the other door. “We’re trapped.”    

Ruth bites her thumb nail, considering the options. “How bad is she?”

Arthie is half-way through her assessment, feeling down Melrose’s legs for any obvious injuries. “I don’t know. She took a big bump to the head—”

Melrose groans. Even unconscious she seems to have an uncanny flair for dramatic timing. “Fuck _me_ ,” she says faintly. “What was I drinking last night?”

“Melrose!” they squeak in unison.

She opens her eyes, taking in the four worried faces gathered over her. “What, did I pass out or something?”

“There was an earthquake,” says Jenny.

“You hit your head,” adds Rhonda.

“Fuuuck,” says Melrose, struggling up onto her elbows to take in the destroyed dressing room.

“I don’t think you should move,” says Arthie, anxiously. “Lie still and tell me if anything hurts.”

“Yeah,” says Melrose, rubbing bloodied fingers against her forehead. “What if it’s, like, everything?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Debbie**

Debbie opens her eyes. There is a moment of giddy confusion, before the pain rushes back. She is bruised, shaken, but very definitely alive.

She is also alone. The balcony is cut in two by the twisted metal of the lighting rig. A second girder has dropped, right onto the ring at the centre of what was the Hayworth Ballroom. She swallows, for a second teetering on the edge of howling hysteria. Instead she bites down the rising bile, sets her jaw. She is alive. She is going to walk out of here and go home to her baby. The important thing now is to get as many of the others out with her as she can.

“Justine?” she calls. The sound is swallowed up by the wreckage of the room. “Sam?”

She moves carefully to where the rig has bisected the balcony, a crumpled hurdle that must be crossed to reach the door. _Don’t over think it_ , she tells herself. _Just like in the ring, let the body take over_. A tentative test, but the metal is pretty well dug in, and it seems like it can take her weight. She scrambles across and almost treads on Justine.

“Holy shit!” she says, jumping. “Are you… okay?” It’s a stupid question; the girl’s breathing is shallow. Her dark eyes are wide. Unblinking.

“It hit him,” she manages, a hoarse whisper.

“What hit…?” She bites her lip, as her brain replays the sentence. “The rig hit Sam?”

Justine nods, closing her eyes, tears spilling out. She points with a shaking finger to a mess of chairs. There’s no obvious sign of Sam amongst the debris, but maybe there’s not much of him—

She derails that train of thought abruptly. “Okay,” she says, “Justine, you need to get out of here and you need to get help. Okay?”

“What if he’s—what if he’s—?”

“Look at me,” she says, feeling like she is watching her body from the outside. Right now, she could do anything, anything at all. Like when she came to the gym to confront Ruth, what feels like a lifetime ago. “I know that you’re scared. But the best thing you can do for him, right now, is get help. Alight? Get. Help. For him.” She pulls the shell-shocked teenager to her feet, wiping away her tears like she’d wipe Randy’s food-stained face.

“Okay,” Justine manages, allowing Debbie to pilot her to the exit. The stairs are a wreck beyond the balcony door but there’s light at the end; the fire door hanging open.

“Be careful,” Debbie says. Or maybe it’s someone else, maybe it’s Liberty Belle speaking through her. A girl who actually knows what to do, a real American hero. It doesn’t matter. “Be careful, but go quickly.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to find Sam,” she says, the words as much of a surprise to herself, “and help him here.”

Debbie, Liberty, whoever is piloting her body right now, turns back to the pile of smashed chairs. “Sam?” she shouts. “Sam, come on.” She picks up the first broken padded seat, throwing it aside. “This isn’t fucking funny.”

There is a wheezing noise, somewhere to her right. “You’re telling me,” rasps the voice of Sam. She laughs. She laughs like a crazy woman with relief, and finally sees him. Draped in dust he almost blends with the carpet, rag-doll crumpled against a drunken row of chairs.

“Did you drag yourself here?” she says, bending to him.

“Nah, I flew,” he winces, through bloodied lips. “I mean, I had some help. Is Justine—?”

“She’s gone to get help. Can you walk?”

“I can hop.” He indicates the unnatural angle of his left leg. “That one isn’t taking calls at the moment.”

“Anywhere else hurt?

He gives her a look. “What, am I a doctor now? I don’t fucking know.”

And they are both laughing, roaring with mirth, until the shaking jars his leg and he yelps. Instinctively her hand finds his, letting him squeeze hard enough that the bones grind together, fighting the pain. She has a vague memory of doing the same to her Mom when Randy came.

“Fuck!” he gasps, “ok, no jokes.” He spits blood. “Come on. Let’s go.”

“Right,” she says, “because, you know, you should definitely be moving. Maybe it’s better for us to wait for the EMTs…”

“Fuck that,” he says. “I’ve got a reputation to uphold.”

“As a stubborn asshole?” she returns, but braces to help him stand nonetheless.

“See? You’ve heard of me.” He takes a breath, steeling himself.

“On three,” she says.

“I’m not Ruth,” he says, “this isn’t the ring.”

“One,” she says, ignoring him, “Two. _Three_!”

He screams in pain, there’s no other word for the noise, but makes it upright. Arm across her shoulders, surprisingly heavy to support. “To the door,” he gasps.

“I really don’t think—”

“Jesus _Christ_ Debbie. Just, just, do this and I’ll go talk to Mark and explain it was my fault you were late to pick up Randy, okay?”

“What, you’ll actually do it?”

“Yeah,” he says, sounding surprised. “Of course I’ll do it. What, you actually thought...? Look, I just don’t like being told what to do, alright?”  

“How mature.”

“Yeah.” He considers this. “I mean, that’s my reputation, right?” He sighs. “Let’s get this over with. On three?” 

“On three,” she agrees.

* * *

** Cherry **

“They say it’s going to be a while,” says Cherry, returning from the ‘phone booth. “Lot of calls.”

“It looks bad.” Reggie, always terse, sounds strained as they survey the damage to the Heyworth.

Privately, Cherry agrees, but it’s not what Reggie needs to hear right now. “A lot of it’s superficial,” she says bracingly. The wail of sirens is audible in the distance now, the thrum of helicopter rotors. “Let’s give them a hand.”

“What do you mean?”

“Shift some of the rubble,” she explains. “See if we can get them out before the rescuers even get here.”

Reggie nods. “Yeah. Yeah,” she says. “Move stuff. I can do that.”

“Let’s go.”

They head around back, to the fire escape into the main dressing room. The metal staircase from the upper levels has fallen, blocking the door. Cherry tests the weight of it. “Heavy,” she says, blowing up her cheeks.

“We can do this,” says Reggie, taking the metal in hand. “Together.”

Cherry smiles. “Hell, yes.”

Reggie counts them down and together they pull. The metal moves. Slowly at first, shrieking as it grinds over the sidewalk, throwing sparks. Reggie yells, a pure primal noise. With one huge, final effort the door is clear. Cherry turns the handle and Jenny and Rhonda practically fall out.

“We thought we heard you!” says Jenny, hugging Cherry fiercely.

“Thank God you’re okay,” says Rhonda.

“Are _you_ all?” checks Cherry, coming inside.

“Melrose bumped her head,” offers Jenny.

“I’m fine,” volunteers the injured party, from her position on the sofa. “I’ve got a great doctor right here.” She exchanges a smile with Arthie. “Did you find Dawn and Stacey?”

“Sheila’s with them. What about the others?”

“The corridor’s blocked,” calls Ruth.

Cherry ducks into the buckled corridor, to find Ruth scrabbling through the rubble. “Is it safe?”

Ruth shrugs. “It hasn’t shifted since…” She swallows. “The others are still behind.”

 _Shit_ , Cherry thinks. “You want some help?”

“Please.”

Reggie joins in too, a human chain moving fallen ceiling tiles, plaster pieces and pipes. They don’t speak. There’s no need. Pass, throw, dig; repeat. Until the commotion outside causes them to pause.

“What—?”

“It’s Justine!”

Ruth’s head snaps up. “Is she okay?”

“Yes, yes, she’s fine—”

Outside, Justine is batting away the friendly arms of the others. “No, you need to come,” she says. “Debbie is… and Sam…” She gulps, trying to get enough breath to finish a sentence.

“What about them?”

“Are they okay?”

“What about Carmen and Tamée?”

“Yo, shut up!” snaps Cherry. “Justine, _where_ are Debbie and Sam?”

“The balcony,” babbles Justine, “they were on the balcony…”

“Are they hurt?” tries Cherry.

“Sam is… Sam got hit by the rig. The lighting rig collapsed and—”

“What about Debbie?” asks Ruth.

“She’s okay, I think. She-she said she was going to look for Sam.”

Cherry meets Ruth’s eyes for a fraction of a second, a beat of understanding passing between them. “Let’s go,” she says. “Reggie?”

“I’m staying here.” Her jaw is set. “Tamée… And the others. Need my help here.”

“Okay,” says Cherry. And if there are other words unspoken she ignores them; questions that can wait for another time. She looks around at the others. “Everyone that can, help Reggie. We’ll be back soon. Ruth?”

“Yep.”

 They trot round to the other fire escape, hanging open. Darkness and dust within. Cherry coughs. “Sam?” she shouts. “Debbie?” At her side Ruth echoes the call.

“Up here!” comes the reply after heart-stopping moments, faint but very definitely Debbie.

“Need help?”

“No, no, everything’s just peachy!” Sam, sounding pained.

Ruth and Cherry exchange a look, a grin, a moment of perfect synchronicity. “We’re coming!” they shout, together.


	3. Chapter 3

** Shelia **

“This way,” she says.

“Are you sure?”

“Wolves have a very good sense of smell.”

Dawn and Stacey exchange a worried look. “Yeah,” tries Dawn, “but they’re also wild animals. This would be a… confusing situation for them.”

She smiles crookedly. “I know. It’s this way.”

“Do you think it’s… safe?” tries Stacey.

“No. But Carmen and Tammé are in there.”

And they’re pack, she doesn’t say. She knows wolves in the wild can’t afford sentimentality, any more than they can scent for human bodies in ruined buildings, but _she’s_ not a wolf in the wild. She’s a wolf trapped in human skin. Wolfish instincts always must be filtered through that fact of her reality first.  Which means pack are humans—with all their byzantine social mores and expectations—and following a trail is as much about using her eyes, her brain as it is her nose. Hard to explain all that at the best of times, and now is about as far from that as possible. She doesn’t bother, just focusses on the task at hand. That’s the wild way; the wolf way.

The square space of the ballroom itself has weathered events surprisingly well, a collapsed plaster frieze that once adorned the back wall notwithstanding. Superstructure has wrought more damage; specifically, the lighting rig and associated scaffolding collapsed onto the ring and commentators table.

“Oh, God,” says Stacey. “They must’ve—”

“Quiet,” says Sheila. “I can hear something.”

“… and his great-great-grandmother was actually German; _they_ came to the USA in eighteen-eighty-three…”

“Is that _Bash_?”

“Who’s he talking about?”

Sheila rolls her eyes. “Hey!” she shouts. “Can you hear me?”

A muffled thump. “Sheila?” A voice that sounds very much like Carmen.

“And Dawn and Stacey!” adds Dawn, pointlessly.

“Are you under the ring?”

“Yes! We’re all here!”

“Okay,” Sheila says, thinking hard as Dawn and Stacey embrace one another with relief. “The lighting grid has come down on top of you. We’ll need to move some of that off to get to you—”

She starts at the rattle of masonry, but it’s coming from underneath the broken frieze. A hole opens up in the middle of the pile, the worried face of Reggie peering through. “Tamée?” she calls.

“They’re here! They’re alive! We just need to move the rig.”

The expression on Reggie’s face is not one you’d ever find on a wolf. But Sheila understands it perfectly nonetheless.

* * *

** Sam **

There’s someone sitting at the foot of his bed. He can hear them turning the pages of a magazine, the quiet sound of their breathing. He risks opening one eye, but without his glasses the blurry shape poses more questions than it answers. A woman, dark haired and slight, that much he can tell. He considers the options. Ruth, maybe, or Justine.

There’s still some part of his brain that’s hoping it’s Carolyn, and that’s the real kicker. Everything aches—his leg feels like someone has filled it with splinters—and he wants someone who’ll hold his hand and kiss every bruise better.

“Found anything good?” he growls.

“Morning to you too, Sam,” says Ruth archly, answering that question. He supposes he should be grateful anyone is here at all.

“I need my glasses.” She passes them over, bringing him blinking into the world proper. “You’re okay?”

“We’re all okay,” she confirms with a smile. “Melrose has a concussion, but apart from that we all came out pretty much unscathed.”

“Oh, good.” She seems to be waiting for something else. “What?”

“How do _you_ feel?”

“Shitty.” If she’s got bad news, she’s doing a terrible job of delivering it. He sighs, taking matters into his own hands. “I take it I still have two legs left?”

“Yes, Sam,” she says, wrinkling her nose. “I’d probably have led with something more sympathetic if you weren’t going to make a complete and total recovery.”

“Hah. I’ll bear that in mind in future.” Relieved nonetheless, he risks pulling back the cover to examine his plastered limb. Five pink toes twitch at him on command.

“See? Still there.”

“Yeah.” He puts the leg away, trying to marshal fuzzy thoughts. “I see. And you too…Why are you here?”

She shrugs. “Cherry and Keith had to go home, and Justine’s… well, she’s not sure what to say to you—”

“What to _say_ to me?”

“Yeah.” She looks puzzled at his confusion. “She thinks it’s her fault you got hurt. Pushing her out of the way of the rig.”

He swallows. “I mean, I can tell her I was just trying to save the camera if you think—”

“Sam!”

“I’m kidding. Kidding.”

“Hmm.”

He sighs, lying back amongst the cloud-like pillows. “She doesn’t have to say anything.”

“I know. But she probably needs to hear that from you.”

“Well, in case you hadn’t noticed I’m not exactly in any shape to be running around trying to find her—”

“ _Jesus_ , Sam. I thought the painkillers at least might take the edge off.”

“Hah. I think I’ve taken stronger Tylenol…”

“I’ll bet,” she returns, unimpressed, but smiles when he meets her eyes. And it’s not the comfort of his wife’s arms, true enough, but it’s _something_. And it’s better than being alone.

“You gonna stay a while longer?”

She shrugs. “I’m not likely to get a cab right now, am I?”

“Haha.” He closes his eyes. “So… let’s start with everything I missed while I was out.”


End file.
